The Psychology of Poison
by ScarletDeva
Summary: He does it and she knows it but they never talk about it.


Together, they had a secret.

And they kept it from each other.

He always held off as long as he could, always to the last minute but eventually the fire within his blood wore him down, wore him thin. Wore him hot and burning and twisting.

So he'd put on his favorite boots and his least favorite cologne and he'd go out to a club. Splash after splash of amber liquid in his glass and it was only after the liquor and the music and the smoke turned everyone hazy, faces softened and blurred, that he'd pick out a woman. One whose hips swiveled to the dark rock beat and whose voice hit just the right, high, breathy note.

He could have tried to fool himself but that would have been far too unfair. What he was doing, he didn't deserve to forget completely.

So sometimes, she'd be blonde.

Sometimes, she'd have raven hair.

And blue eyes.

Or brown.

No matter how warm the swirling in his stomach, she was never a woman that looked at him through faceted emeralds, with locks like dark-red fire just touched with winter frost framing a pale face.

And he always kissed her once, long and deep, just once, tongues rubbing and gliding, but never while thrusting inside her hard and fast and it was all always wrong.

He came with a grunted shout, no coherent words but a name echoing inside his head. Always the same name as his fingers slid on sweat-slicked skin and moisture pooled inside his tightly shut eyelids.

He never quite remembered what happened after, just stumbling back into the mansion under the star-lit sky, clothes and hair in disarray, and the clenching in his gut when he'd peek through one forbidden bedroom door.

Then he'd sleep.

And the next morning he'd make breakfast. Eggs and biscuits and gravy just the way she liked.

She always knew.

Not because he cooked her favorites. But his stop at her door? She always woke up at the soft click of his boots on the parquet floors, the sound louder than the barely audible scrape of his normal stride, and maybe it was Logan's power stirring inside her, or even Sabertooth's, but she could always smell that mix of the cologne Bobby got him for Christmas, tangy sweat and always a different flowery scent that seemed smeared into his pores.

She cried, never sobbing, never curling up into a hapless ball, body shaking with consuming grief. She cried pretty, because how she looked was all she had, so all those tears just gently slid down her pale cheeks and she gingerly dabbed at the moisture with a lavender-scented, soft, cotton handkerchief. And then she tucked under her comforter and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Because what she wanted to dream about? It was too hard to wake up and know she could never have it.

And then she'd get up and put on a pretty, green dress, with long, light sleeves, lacy gloves and delicate flats. If she was going to die, her last request would be to go with dignity, properly attired and even smiling, because no one ever got to see her crumple. So she dressed pretty and she dabbed on some lip gloss and she went to the kitchen.

That smell she caught whiff of the night before? She could always still smell it the next morning although she knew he showered and showered hard and she was never sure if it was really there or just her imagination, her conscience, reminding her of what she drove him to. It always caught the edge of her senses and then curled in her stomach and slithered all over her skin with a dry, sandpapery tongue. Her skin. Her poison skin.

That was when she'd shake her head, shoving the thoughts away and look at Logan, who always looked faintly disapproving on those days so she figured that smell really was there.

Maybe some part of him wanted her to know, she thought, wanted her to confront him and set him free.

She couldn't.

Maybe she didn't love him enough and maybe it was too much.

But he'd always wear gloves those mornings, full fingered gloves, and he'd take hers off, letting her bare skin glide along the supple leather on his palms.

It was soft and warm and, she knew, felt nothing like skin. But so much better than the inside of her own gloves, all of them worn flat and lifeless by her super-powered touch.

So she'd eat her breakfast and hold his hands and forget the night before until the next time.

And there always was a next time.

Because her skin?

Always poisonous.


End file.
